I don’t have a drinking problem.
I have a thinking problem.
Thoughts like knives,
thoughts like wrecking balls,
thoughts that break bones
and don’t apologize.
I don’t pour shots.
I pour panic.
I pour regret.
I pour every “what if” I can’t outrun.
It’s not whiskey that messes me up.
It’s memory.
It’s overthinking.
It’s the endless rewinds,
the what could have beens,
the arguments with ghosts at 3AM.
It’s drinking down every mistake
like it might finally kill the taste.
I don’t stumble out of bars
I collapse into myself.
